


fated to pretend

by orphan_account



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Childhood Memories, Dream Smp, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Growing Up, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Exile, Sad, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, ish, l'manberg, point and laugh at the sad minecraft roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28671162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tommy, a recently free man, finds a relic of his past and is quickly confronted with the truth of his reality.The world comes at him too hard, too fast. It always has.
Relationships: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) - Relationship, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 1
Kudos: 81





	fated to pretend

**Author's Note:**

> title from "time to pretend" by mgmt

  


Being a free man again was still a bit hard to become accustomed to, Tommy found. Old habits die hard and all, which was as good an excuse as any for pulling swords on your friends whenever they made eye contact with you. They’d get over it eventually.

Being left to himself helped avoid these problems quite easily though.

Walking freely through L’Manberg and the surrounding areas was surprisingly even _fun_ when you weren’t constantly having to slather yourself in potions or arm yourself up to the teeth. There was a peace Tommy hadn’t seen in so, so long; had it been years now? He didn’t know.

The Prime Path stood as strong as it always had, something he’d smiled at when he found himself patrolling along it again, a relic of himself that had survived the tests of time (and the tests of creepers, and withers, and whatever else the maniacs around here did). Tommy let it guide him across the SMPlands, around places he didn’t even recognise, as if he had never left. Some creeper holes had been fixed, some more buildings created and burned to the ground. Nothing otherworldly unfamiliar, and that made him swell with joy.

His house was on this path.

It seemed welcoming, like it wanted to drag him in right through the door and keep him safe forever. Tommy hadn’t seen it in far too long, and it was really enough to make a grown man cry (he didn’t, much too big of a man to be seen crying) to see the ugly little thing still looming where he’d built it so many months ago.

Tommy crept inside as if he was breaking and entering, and not just walking into his own home. It had definitely gotten dustier since he’d last been here, spiders leaving delicate cobwebs like lace all over the ceiling. Gross. Handprints were also left on the dust on the chests in the main room, clearly looted. That sounded like a good idea, come to think of it, Tommy thought.

Crawling towards one chest, hopefully still holding _some_ materials, Tommy lifts it open with one quick movement.

There’s certainly not wood or cobble in here, or anything of much use actually, but there is something that catches his eye instantly. A familiar blue jacket, and tricorn hat, were folded neatly in the corner.

A giddy feeling of excitement bubbles in his stomach as he picks up the uniform—his uniform, a uniform gifted to him by his brother one pre-revolution night—in his shaky hands again. It had been a while, the time showing itself in the dust caking the fabric and the yellowing of the white detailings. Seeing it, even in this condition, brought back that feeling of pure youthful adrenaline Tommy had felt when he’d fought a real war for the first time in full force.

Gently, he peels the navy coat off of the other garments, careful as to not tear any of the ageing and already battered fabric. It was just as thick and heavy as he remembered, the blue only slightly darkened with time. The patches and lazy stitching that fixed gashes from swords and stray arrows were in every place he still had fading scars. Even just having it in his hands again reminded him of an easier time.

In a desperation to maybe return to that feverish August, to the electricity that swarmed the viscous air that he would have to drink down into his lungs like a mad man, he decides he needs to put it on immediately or he might just drop dead. 

Tommy shakes the dust off as best he can—he can’t help but giggle and smile dopily to himself as he undoes the clasps and buttons—and pulls his arms through the sleeves as quickly as he can, trying to smooth the fabric as he goes.

It didn’t fit. 

All of it is too tight, too short, too disproportionate. When he looks in the windows to see himself, the sleeves come down a few inches above his wrists. He looks childish, not in an endearing way, but silly. It looks stupid. It’s too much to take in at once.

He doesn’t quite look like himself in the reflection anymore.

Clawing it off of his back, praying to gods that it doesn’t get snagged on anything, he throws it to the ground in a quiet horror. It feels like only months—weeks, days even— that it was oversized on him. Tommy calls back to the first time Wilbur had handed it to him.

_“Now, I know it’s a little... extra,”_ Wilbur had said, smiling sheepishly, _“But I wouldn’t have any less for my right hand man, eh? Try it on.”_

And he had. The coat fell over his hands a little, the sash around his waist was wrapped around him twice with the length of it, and he’d had to stuff an extra pair of socks in the boots to wear them comfortably. He had been grinning the entire time.

_“Jeez, Tommy, you look like a proper revolutionary now,”_ His brother laughed happily, and knelt down to help roll up his sleeves, _“I know this war is a bit of a mess, but you’re gonna do great. I know you’re a good fighter. Proud of you, no matter what, okay?”_

It hadn't felt like Wilbur was very proud of him when he’d berated him in those tunnels between L’Manberg and Pogtopia, screaming how he would never be president. It hadn’t felt like pride when Wilbur caught his eyes for a split second with that horrid smile as he was stabbed through the stomach, by their own father, no less.

Tommy didn’t have much reason to believe Wilbur had been proud of him in quite some time.

Not that it would matter now, what with the fact he was all dead and shit, but it was still haunting to think about. He had given so much of his life to fighting for that man, fighting for _his_ L’Manberg. Why did he fight for Wilbur, for L’Manberg? Why did he even bother loving that country, giving everything for it, when it did not love him back?

The uniform still lay crumpled on the floor. An easier thing to focus attention on.

Picking it up, shakier than before, Tommy tried to fold it and shove it away in a chest without having to look at it once. Perhaps it had been just a little bit of a mistake to even think about trying it on. It served only as a reminder of how quickly childhood was ripped away from him.

They sent _boys_ out to that battlefield. Children carrying the weight of geopolitical warfare. No wonder he had grown so quickly, actually. He had to, to survive. 

Exile forced him to think about this more than he would’ve liked to, but no matter how he’d try, it was a truth he’d have to accept. He wasn’t that child anymore. It showed in his scars, battle wounds that have already had years worth of healing; in his stronger face, stern and dark eyes. Hard to not miss the sparkling filter on the world, he thought.

He had grown up too quickly. He was bitter about it.

Anything for the bright and colourful outlook he used to have, for it to just be him and Tubbo getting themselves into some hijinks that didn’t really mean much at all. For the discs to be the only thing that mattered in the world to him, to not have to worry about politics and tyrants and terrorism. It wasn’t fair to have that ripped out from under him so quickly.

Maybe he should have refused Wilbur, not have ever bothered with the drug van or the revolution or the prospect of freedom. Sure, he’d have probably still be seeing war to some extent, but if he hadn’t gotten involved personally? He’d still be sitting happy and looking through rose-coloured glasses. 

Whatever. He can get angry another time; punch at the walls or something another time. Right now, he had to get out of this stupid fucking house. It felt like it was collapsing in on him, crushing his ribs and lungs, choking him up.

Tommy shuffled his way out of his old home, dejected, weary and shaken, and did nothing but stare directly at the ground beneath him. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing tears welling up in his eyes. 

L’Manberg seemed a lot less inviting after that.

  


**Author's Note:**

> hey :D this was just some writing practice that i quickly threw together because i've not been very active here lately while planning bigger projects. i hope you enjoyed <3


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